Open Heart : A Sneak Peak and a Giveaway (#SmallWonder link-up)

This is it, friends, Monday, Nov. 7 "Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk & Poultry" officially launches into the world.  It's exciting and a little bit scary and so, in honor of that, I want to share an excerpt from the book - a story about love and risk, pain and joy.  Enjoy and when you're done reading scroll down to see my free launch-day giveaways.

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Cold winds and thunderstorms settled into the area over the weekend.  Saturday came and went in a fog of post-birthday-party exhaustion, and the sunny morning turned dark and windy by late afternoon.  In the morning, our sleepy kids stayed inside playing on the Wii, and I walked down to the fence, hoping to talk awhile with our neighbor Ann. 

I spotted her husband, Don, in the yard first, closer to the fence.  Based on two years of over-the-fence observation, I’ve reached the conclusion that Ann and Don’s yard is governed by a neat division of labor – Ann tends her teaming flowerbeds and Don putters in his vegetable garden.  Both the beds and the garden put ours to shame, but John and I comfort ourselves by remembering that the Ann and Don are retired and not raising four young children. 

I’ve noticed a similar division of labor in their approach to the neighborly business of fence-side small-talk – Ann engages freely in extended conversation over a wide range of topics, and Don does not.  Drawing Don to the fence to even ask a question is like pulling teeth.  Attempt more and he’s clearly uncomfortable.  

One day last summer, when we were integrating our second round of chicks into our well established flock, the twins discovered one of the chicks named America, trapped tight in the far corner of the run.  “She’s dead!  America’s dead!” they cried, running into the house and pulling me out into the yard.  Bending down to examine the chick I discovered a large bloody gash in her neck.  It looked, in fact, like she’d been decapitated.  I wasn’t sure what to do, and, more importantly, I didn’t want to deal with the dead bird alone while Isaiah and Levi ran enthusiastic circles around me. 

Standing up, I looked down toward Ann and Don’s yard hoping for help.  I caught a glimpse of Don and approached casually under the guise of commiserating but seriously hoping to convince him to take care of the dead bird.  Don, however, proved resilient in the face of my woman-in-distress ploy. 

“Oh,” he said, “that’s too bad.”  He didn’t offer to help, and, knowing it wasn’t his responsibility, I couldn’t bring myself to ask.  I would deal with the bird myself. 

When I got back to the chicken tractor I bent down again for a closer examination.  The twins, bored already with death, had wandered off and in their absence, I noticed the rise and fall the chick’s fluffy feathers.  She was still breathing, a clear sign she had not, in fact, been decapitated.  I walked into the run and reached into the far back corner where she was huddled.  Pulling her out and tucking her to my chest, I realized she was pecked up pretty badly but likely to survive.  After a few days of isolation and over-the-counter antibiotic ointment, she was on the mend, and I had learned not to expect Don to play the Knight in Shining Armor.   

So I wasn’t looking to talk to Don Saturday morning, I was looking for Ann.  I spotted her on the far side of their yard wearing shorts and tall black polka-dotted rain boots.  Easily forgetting she’s close to 70 years old, I watched as she pushed a wheelbarrow full of mulch around to her flower beds.  Seeing my approach, she made a bee-line to the fence, and we chatted about summer and the gigantic addition being added to a house on the hill behind our house.  While we talked, Isaiah and Levi ran over yelling, “Miss. Ann!  Miss. Ann!”  They climbed briefly up and down the fence, lapping up her attention, then trotted off to play again. 

The reason I walked down to the fence was that I needed someone to talk to.  The night before John and I had found out that dear friends of ours were separating, and our hearts were broken.  When our chit-chat wound down, I told Ann about it.  She affirmed the real pain of a marriage ending and how sad it is for everyone involved, sharing stories from her experience with the divorces of people she knows. 

So many of the married friends John and I share got married at the same time we did.  We knew, even then, that the odds were high that many of us would not stay married.  And yet now, some 15 years later, it still seemed impossible that some of our friends were entering into a post-marriage stage of life.

“Maybe we’re naïve,” I said, “I’m almost 40.  I don’t understand how these things still catch me by surprise.”  What I really couldn’t understand was why it hurt so badly – hurt to see our friends in such complete and utter pain, hurt to be unable to fix it for them, to only be able to stand by watching, listening, and praying. 

Turning back to face our yard, I noticed the Polish hens and asked Ann if she’d seen them.  She said she had but couldn’t really tell much about them since they were penned up in the run on the far side of our yard.   “Do you see the fluff-headed ones?” I asked, my eyes following the Polish hens as they pecked along the perimeter of the netting. 

“Yeah, kinda,” she said, “but not very well.” 

I described them for her in detail, painting a picture of their fluffy white pom-pom heads and lacy gray-black feathers.  As I talked, I felt love for them rise in my chest despite the distance between us. 

Later in the day, I told John about my conversation with Ann, about how I thought maybe we were just naive.  But I also told him something I had realized while standing at the fence watching those baby hens from a distance.  “I loved them,” I said, “even from all the way across the yard, and I guess if you’re the kind of person who can fall in love with a Polish hen, then life’s gonna hurt.” 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“There’s no separating the two,” I said.  “It’s like the words on that painting hanging in the upstairs hallway, “Love wide; make your way with an open heart.”  Loving a Polish hen is loving with an open heart, and an open heart’s gonna get hurt.  But an open heart also has access to the kind of joy that helps in the middle of the hurt.”

Some days, I think that’s the most we can hope for – enough joy to carry us through the hurt.  Maybe also, if we’re lucky, we might find a sturdy fence to lean on and a neighbor willing to listen for a few minutes or more.

(Like this story?  Want to read more?  Pop over now to order a copy!)

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Today, I'm giving away two Prize Packages.  Two lucky winners will receive a signed copy of "Chicken Scratch" AND a "Chicken Poop" lip balm.  (For the record, the lip balm contains NO poop and only natural ingredients like avocado oil, beeswax and jojoba oil.)  Check out the Rafflecopter below to enter to win.  Winners will be announced next Sunday.  

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.  Thanks for being part of our community!  

Podcast: Writing, Wonder & Discovery

Last week, my friend Karen Weiss from Waterworks Ministries in State College, PA, came over to interview me for her podcast.  We had a great time sitting in the sunlit Little House on my property talking about writing as a way of paying attention to life and as a Spiritual Practice.  

If you've ever wondered how I started writing, how I decide what to write about or where I find God in the process, pop over to her website and have a listen.  I also give a shortish-long description of what my forthcoming book, Chicken Scratch is really all about.  

The proofs of Chicken Scratch (final rough drafts) arrived yesterday and my older two children carted two of them off to school to show their friends and teachers - I think they're more excited than I am.  This next week I'll be working hard on editing and re-submitting my files and by November 7th we should be ready to go!  Last, but not least, here's a little bonus meme that gives you a sneak-peak at the heart of Chicken Scratch.  Feel free to download and share the image online.  

Strawberry Love

A sweet scent filling the produce section announces their arrival. Not the cold, hard strawberries on steroids that travel from distant destinations all year round, but the small red jewels that grow local - leaf-hidden, hovering notes of delight. These are hand-picked, delicate, tender smiles that stain fingers, teeth and tongue. 

In their wafting wake comes my Grandmother’s love – also tender, sweet and local for a time when I was little enough to ripen under her sun. I was her strawberry girl – picking in the long, low, leafy rows that stretched across the field beside her house. Then watching, waiting, for the slow ripening on the windowsill of things picked too soon. 

I learned to squat over and along the rows, watching where I put my feet, lifting green on the hunt for red. Hard, spring-green berries were left hanging and even the rubies were checked for green tips cool in the shadows untouched by sunlight. 

All was done in one swift movement – brushing, sweeping aside leaves with one hand while the other reached, then cradled, inspecting the fruit and – if all was ready – the fingernail of a thumb worked to cut the cord holding fruit to vine. 

Berries were gathered in green cardboard quarts, small treasure chests filled with delight. Then we washed and dried them looking for the tiny creatures, black like seeds with legs sprouted, that lived their lives walking across the landscape of those small, crimson orbs. (oh! to be one of them!) Clean berries were cut, mashed, drowned in sugar and pectin and heated on the stove. Simmering slow, they were transformed into glistening jam that my grandma stored in old margarine containers. This was doled out on top of buttered toast that did not end until you were full. 

A ripe berry is warmth spread through and through, softness, tenderness – sunlight transformed into scent and sweetness.  

So also is love.

I carry her love in me like a ripe berry carries sunlight and water.

Linking with #TellHisStory.

Rudolph's Bargain Patch (A Christmas Story)

 

It sat alone, across the muddy tractor tracks, next to the stinking porta-potties in a wide and muddy pit.  

Enjoying the wagon ride out to the fields, the hacksaw in hand and children all around, my husband and I hardly noticed the wide plastic sign, our sights set firmly on cutting our own Douglas or Frasier fir.  

We’re skinny-tree people, the taller and spindlier the better and we were excited to head out across the muddy fields to cut and claim our own piece of Christmas.  Two three-year-olds in tow, we climbed down from the wagon and followed vague directions toward a distant hill.  

The boys lagged behind by the time we reached the first stand of trees - small, pre-cut firs - and my husband I exchanged worried glances as we subtly scanned the increasingly alarming price tags.  We held a quick and quiet conference in the midst of the evergreens then turned as a family and headed back toward another field where the hopefully cheaper Douglas Firs waited.   

Things started to fall apart a little then.  Little people stumbled over stumps and ditches, hands were cold and ears.  There was an argument with an older child about the need to zipper a coat.  We crossed the muddy wagon tracks to a field of still shorter trees and slowed, again exchanging looks over the price tags we passed. 

Subtlety aside, our older children picked up our tone and started exclaiming over the prices too and then we were that family with too many kids exclaiming in overly loud tones about the cost of the trees.

Picking a tree in winter with young children in tow is a time-sensitive endeavor.  We were running out of patience, hesitant to pay for an overpriced tree that would be dwarfed by our nine-foot ceilings, but more hesitant still to spend the gas and time needed to drive to a cheaper tree farm.  

That’s when we remembered Rudolph's Bargain Patch, a humble cluster of homely castaways – a veritable island of misfit trees.  I ran ahead to scout things out, saving precious little feet unnecessary footsteps, and planned to signal back if the small patch held any promise.  I slipped and scurried past a storage shed and several industrial outhouses before stopping by an overly cheerful sign emblazoned with a chipper little red-nosed reindeer. 

Wagon-loads of people road by as I dove into the muddy patch, running quickly between the trees and, lo! to my great surprise our salvation lay in that lowly patch.  I ran again into the roadway and waved the family over, uncontainable excitement at the prospect of getting a “steal” written across my face.  

The trees were enormous and cheap, so cheap, especially in comparison to what we’d just seen.  The six of us bobbed and wove among them, stumbling and slipping in the mud, exclaiming over and over, “Look at this one!” and “Oh my gosh, this one is huge.”

In the far back corner sat the mother-load, a great monster of a tree, exceptional both in girth and height – a tree so big and cheap that we couldn’t not get it.  

Still, we hesitated, grinning, circling, exclaiming and wondering.   

Would it fit in our house?  Our tree stand?  Could my husband even carry it?  

Finally we brought it to a vote and with smiles all around, from the littlest face to the largest, we voted to embrace the glory of that giant, forlorn tree. 

Stumbling a little on his feet, my husband hoisted the heavy trunk halfway to his shoulder while I “spotted” from behind.  Then the six of us marched, triumphant, from the bargain patch, our faces filled with the glory of largess, the audacity of abundance discovered in unexpected places. 

 

People in the passing wagons smiled at us and I imagined the picture we made – a family short on cash with a gaggle of kids carrying this great misfit of a tree out of the mud and muck like we’d just won the lottery.

I was tempted to be embarrassed, but mostly I was joyful, exuberant.

Reading the Magnificat this week it occurred to me that maybe this is something akin to what Mary felt when she sang her famous song about the upheaval that was taking place within her.  Maybe the joy we felt lugging home that pearl of great price wasn’t so far removed from what the shepherds felt, slipping and sliding their way to the manger; not so different from the awe and welcome the wise men experienced entering the child's simple home after their costly exposure to Herod’s court.  

When the tree was home and in the stand, my husband cut the wrapping off and there was a pregnant pause before whomp! it sprang out of its confines filling the room and our hearts with joy.  

Every time I descend the stairs and spy it’s swollen circumference in the corner of the living room, Mary's question chimes within me, “How can this be?”  This is the story of Christmas, this story of searching and finding what you didn’t know you needed in a place you never would’ve thought to look.      

Credit for this sweet photo HERE.

(This post is dedicated to all of the families we've secretly and openly ridiculed for their ridiculously fat Christmas trees, specifically the Hicklins and the Ladases and in memory of my Grandfather Hausknecht whose Christmas trees got a little shorter and wider every year.) 

May You Know Discomfort (An Advent Blessing)

 

Comfort, O comfort my people, says your God. - Isaiah 40:1
 
There's a comfort
that enshrouds the living
in the illusion of safety,
swaddled in excess, removed
from exposure, bundled
like that boy in A Christmas Story,
unable to move or effect much at all;
a comfort that leads to sleep that is a living
death.

Then, also, there is the comfort
that comes as a balm, soothing ointment
spread across the gaping wound.  Comfort
like a gentle voice that knows your name and speaks
it even in the storm of anxiety and fear.  Comfort
that sees your sin for what it is and bears its cost
like a weight lifted from your back.  Comfort like water
for the thirsty, bread for the hungry, rest for the weary,
freedom for the oppressed.  Comfort that restores fullness of
life.

The difference,
lies in the willingness
to be disturbed,
exposed,
vulnerable,
and weak.

May you know thirst and hunger this Advent.

May you feel the raw winds of exposure, the ache
of your own depletion.

May the darkness of this world
overwhelm you, laying bare the illusions of all that is false
within and around you.

May the emptiness, loneliness and longing
that is spaciousness and freedom rise up around you until
you're able to hear the words of the prophet as they were spoken.

May you know discomfort that you might receive with joy,
the God of all Comfort. 

This post is linked with Playdates with God.
 

Homesick

 

I’ve not often been homesick as an adult; not homesick in a desperate, find-me-a-train-or-bus-or-airplane-out-of-here-or-else-I-will-walk sort of way.

But last week I spent six days locked-in at the local behavioral health unit due to severe panic attacks.  I needed to be there, especially in the first few days, needed the space to receive care, to rest (as much as one can in a hospital), to find healing in all the ways available.  

As I grew in wholeness, the stress of being in the behavioral health unit also grew in proportion so that my anxiety shifted its focus from the stressors that put me there to the chaos and occasionally fearful nature of the unit itself.  I missed my children terribly, missed nature, familiar routines and privacy.  

I colored a lot, filling in mandalas with the bright yellow and red of colored pencils.  I slowly read and re-read lines out of Barbara Brown Taylor’s newest book Walking in the Dark, carrying it and my pencils with me like a talisman.  I melted into my husband every time he visited.  Sitting side-by-side on my narrow twin bed we both stared straight ahead sometimes talking, sometimes not.  We were stunned by our circumstances, unable to see past the moment.    

Behavioral Health Units are driven by a strange combination of rules and chaos – you cannot have shoe laces, pens, chap stick or cold medications without enduring a mountain of red tape.  You will see the Dr, a therapist, a nurse, but you will not know when or even where and it’s possible, if crisis arises (and it will) you will slip to the bottom of the list of needs again and again.  

By the sixth day I'd heard no mention of my own discharge and I feared that my desire to return home would be thwarted by both rules and chaos.  I was ready to go home, though and ready to advocate aggressively on my own behalf.  

I made my own follow-up appointments and presented them to my social worker.  I quoted a staff member who said at the morning “Rise and Shine” meeting, “This is a very stressful environment.”  But most of all, I told my therapist, with my hands pressed against my chest, “I just want to go home to my beautiful life.” 

I was homesick in the best way.  Homesick in the way that allows us, if only briefly, to see the beauty of what is by the sheer light of its absence.  

“Then let’s get you out of here,” he said.

I am so blessed. 

I returned home that evening to a world of lush late-summer beauty.  I ate pizza on the porch with my husband, picked cucumbers and watched the light move across the golden-tipped field of corn.  I waited for my friend to bring our kids home, standing near the end of the driveway as the hour grew late, ready to walk to get them if they didn’t show up soon. 

It’s been five days now and, yes, the kids are back to driving me crazy.  The house is a mess, the laundry never ending and I am so physically and emotionally tired and overwhelmed at times that all I want to do is cry.  But I carry within me still the light of absence forged by time away.  That light falls on both the sublime and mundane, illuminating it all with the beauty of home.  

I want to thank everyone who's expressed support and encouragement during this difficult time.  I continue to remember with compassion those at the hospital who had no home to return to, no family to visit.  May God have mercy on us all.